The Mother Lode Project

THE MOTHER LODE PROJECT

THE MOTHER LODE PROJECT

The Magdalen & Lasher Charity

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Xaverine MA Bates, Stockpiled, 2018, mixed media

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CONTENTS INTRODUCTION 4 SELF-PORTRAITS & PORTRAITS 10 STILL LIFE 31 NARRATIVE 45 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 64

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THE MOTHER LODE PROJECT Mother lode: a principal vein or zone of gold or silver ore, or colloquially the real/imaginary origin of something valuable or in great abundance.

[Wikipedia] The aim of this project is to extract the gold from difficult experiences of motherhood by giving opportunities for mothers who are experiencing mental health challenges to work with artistmothers with lived experience of similar issues. This publication is the result of a series of six months of photography and creative writing workshops, which were held in 2019 at the De La Warr Pavilion Studio with photographer Vicki Painting, writer Antonia Chitty and peer support specialist Chenielle Jefferies.

I conceived and coordinated The Mother Lode Project as a means to channelling my experiences as a mother with lived experience of mental health issues, the catalyst for which was my artwork, Stockpiled shown on page 2. I wanted to enable others to express difficult and taboo feelings about motherhood and to help them overcome challenges through the creative process. By enabling mothers who are struggling with mental health issues to tell their stories in ways that have both artistic quality and therapeutic benefit, I hope this publication and the podcast series will raise awareness of the hidden challenges some mothers face in order to develop understanding and empathy. We are part of a growing movement that supports and champions artist-mothers, including Spilt Milk, Procreate Project, Mothers Who Make, An Artist Residency in Motherhood and Mothers Uncovered.

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We are seeking to raise awareness of the hidden issues surrounding motherhood and mental health focusing on a lifetime of mothering not just pregnancy, birth and the postnatal period, exploring expectations versus reality and the resultant impact on mothers’ mental health. Working in partnership with Recovery Partners, who provided tailored support from within the sessions, each workshop was held in a safe, confidential space. Childcare bursaries were available for mothers with children aged 0–5 depending on participants’ needs, as well as travel bursaries for those on lower incomes. We also held additional peer support sessions at Egerton Park Children’s Centre in Bexhill as well as recording sessions for the Mother Lode Project Podcast series, which is available on Soundcloud.

The podcast consists of conversations about motherhood and mental health, including spoken word from AR Wordsmith and was produced by Jilliene Sellner.

We also held two mentoring days for artist-mothers, led by Judith Alder at Jerwood Gallery (now Hastings Contemporary) and Towner Gallery, Eastbourne, which provided opportunities to meet, share ideas and strategies and develop tools to plan, build and sustain an arts practice throughout motherhood. Judith Alder is an artist and mother with almost 20 years’ experience of working in the arts.

The participants have created some stunning work, including portraits, self-portraits, still life and narrative photography, poetry and prose, which is curated within the pages of this book.

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Their words speak for themselves: “I hoped to have the opportunity to reconnect with something creative and find a space for myself that was outside of my mother role (whilst reflecting how important that role is to me). The course offered me the opportunity to leave my son for the first time and be alongside others who shared similar experiences. I really enjoyed that the course offered ample opportunity for discussion around the creative process. The sharing has been so vital for all involved and has definitely allowed us to build a rapport, share intimate and personal stories and not feel so alone in the challenging aspects of motherhood.”

“I have learnt that writing is something I am quite good at, it’s something I’m very interested in. I don’t think I would have started writing if I hadn’t done the creative writing phase. I have started writing books in my spare time, I have found this to be very therapeutic as I’m getting all of my creativeness down on paper.”

“I’m happier, because the Mother Lode Project has encouraged me to be creative. I’m stronger, because it has re-centred me and given me advice on how to cope. I’m more social because I now feel confident and connected to a part of my community!”

“This was an extremely powerful and cathartic experience which brought up many emotions that are otherwise difficult to express. It provided time and a safe concentrated space for this to happen.”

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“I can’t even put into words how much the Mother Lode Project has helped all different parts of my life. It’s altered the way I think, the way I respond to people and most of all, how well I cope with my son. The project is such a simple concept, get mothers together, assure them they’re safe to say as much or as little as they like, offer support, encourage creativity. The benefit of this group is unbelievable, every mother deserves a place on this project because I think everyone can benefit.”

Xaverine MA Bates, Project Co-ordinator

The project is funded by: Arts Council England Women Side-by-Side programme supported by Mind & Agenda East Sussex Arts Partnership Magdalen & Lasher Charity

For more information, see: Podcast: soundcloud.com/themotherlodeproject Website: themotherlodeproject.com Instagram: @themotherlodeproject Facebook: @motherlodeproject Twitter: @motherlodepeers 7

GENEROUS LISTENING “The soul is contained in the human voice.”

Writer Jorge Luis Borges I began working with lead artist Xaverine MA Bates during the exhibition A Tale of Mother’s Bones: Grace Pailthorpe, Reuben Mednikoff and the Birth of Psychorealism, presented at De La Warr Pavilion in late 2018. The exhibition was concerned with the artworks and psychoanalytic theories of English surrealists Pailthorpe and Mednikoff. Family dramas of resentment and desire routinely mark the artwork of both as they sought to represent often taboo aspects of the traumas of birth, infancy and motherhood.

As part of the public engagement programme in relation to the exhibition, Xaverine developed and delivered a creative workshop for mothers experiencing mental health challenges.

Together they visited the exhibition, discussed selected artworks and were guided through creative writing and drawing experiments to explore personal experiences of and feelings about motherhood. The intention of the workshop was to give voice to a diverse group of mothers at all stages of motherhood, whose experiences may not otherwise be heard, in a safe, confidential environment.

It was a great privilege to listen to this small group of mothers share their anxieties, insecurities and survival stories.

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Being with the group piqued my interest in listening as an act of compassion, and underscored some questions I had been asking myself about the civic role of a cultural organisation such as De La Warr Pavilion: • How do we uncover, foster and share wisdom collectively?

• How can we nurture and model equitable, reciprocal relationships?

• How can we shape spaces for listening and be shaped by listening?

“Generous listening … involves a kind of vulnerability – a willingness to be surprised, to let go of assumptions and take in ambiguity.”

Broadcaster and writer Krista Tippett The Mother Lode Project has supported participants to find new ways of expression, and we hope it will guide others to listen and to care.

Ashley McCormick, Head of Participation & Learning, De La Warr Pavilion

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DEAR MOTHER It may feel As you hold him tight to your chest Arms aching from the weight That you’ll never put him down But come another turn of the seasons Feet will touch the ground The first faltering steps And then he’ll race into the distance His little wrist twisting a wave goodbye SL

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MOTHERS’ ANTHEM Breast or a bottle, as long as that baby’s getting fed, co-sleep or a crib, as long as you’re putting them to bed yummy mummy, slummy mummy, pro or anti dummy mummy got the stick together cause we’re all on the same team whether your house is a mess, or your house is spotlessly clean whether you sterilize with Milton, or you sterilize with steam, because motherhood isn’t as easy as it seems, some of us battle with post natal depression some of us battle with compulsive obsession, we still have to mum at the end of the day even when we feel far from okay surviving off maternity pay trying to keep the demons at bay we feel like we aren’t good enough because this journey of motherhood can be so damn tough i promise you that you will get through cause none of us really have a clue nappies we’re changing them, toys we’re rearranging them nursery rhymes, we’re singing it, cause at the end of the day – We’re all just winging it.

AR Wordsmith 16

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Smiling, the warm sensation runs through me As if someone was hugging me from the inside The awful taste was worth it We partied all night, slept all day Argued all afternoon I found a job and a flat But he had his skateboard and his Xbox Five years later, I still stay awake all night But now I’m shushing and swaying and rocking And quietly begging for sleep I have the same job, but now I have a marriage and a baby a mortgage and a dog I haven’t partied in years, but sometimes I smile, and a warm sensation runs through me But this one doesn’t feel temporary and doesn’t taste bad And he is still in the past, left behind with his skateboard and his Xbox CS

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DEAR MOTHER Be careful what you wish for It’s harder than it seems You’ll be a firefighter, a policewoman A peddler of dreams Be careful what you wish for The pure love may break your heart The tantrums and I hate yous This is only just the start Be careful what you wish for You’re the knight who defends your child Their looks, behaviour and their soul Even their going wild Be careful what you wish for As your heart will dance and sing Your life will be turned upside down But you wouldn’t change a thing Bloom

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SON To my boy,

I can’t change this world for you

Many times I wish I could

Murder, Shooting, Fire

Would be first to disappear

I know I am not perfect either

Shouting, Withdrawn, Anxious

But when I look at you

I know

That right here, right now

This is heaven

This is my perfection

Not needing change

I have you.

Sarah Ware

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THESE HANDS OF MINE These are my hands They have always worked hard They have nourished cradled held gently stroked made love been loved held stroked cherished massaged They have held people who were dying People who needed a gentle loving touch They have massaged people in pain massaged my babies to show my love Administered first aid been hurt been used to defend and protect used to ride many horses, fly a plane and a helicopter helped a baby or two into the world Comforted distraught children Hugged children in care, whom no one else dared touch Been held up to plead for my life Stroked many creatures great and small have picked wild flowers, pricked out seedlings cooked many meals typed millions of words written letters of love, longing and hope And now they are a bit worn A bit old A bit tired But still so very much loved and loving Saskia 24

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MY ROOM I’ve been searching for this room for years. A room that contains me. A room where I can close the door on intruders. A room where I can let my thoughts be thoughts rather than smothering them before they’ve had the chance to flower. This room is quiet, not completely silent or devoid of sound, but a velvet quiet that I can sink into. I can hear birdsong through the window – a soft accompaniment to my thoughts, which carries rather than obliterates them.

I never used to have room for my thoughts. Other people’s words crowded in: “Look at this, well that’s interesting.

The sky is blue. Everything’s perfect. I’m so happy.” Such was the soundtrack to rooms of the past. Everything was perfect and yet it wasn’t. I’d hear voices talking and planning and organising every last atom of air around me until there was nothing left for me to breathe. Gasping, I’d try to speak, but the words were buried so deep under layers of patchwork control that they lay there, unspoken, for years, eating into my fabric until it started to tear open and my stuffing spilled out.

So in this room, I can breathe. All my books are in one place. I haven’t read half of them, and the half that I have read are only half-read. It seemed impossible to finish someone else’s thoughts when I had no sense of being able to finish my own. All was unfinished. I didn’t know the ending. I could hastily write one – The Answer! Only to find it was the wrong ending and I’d gone through another wrong door.

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This room has many doors, all half open – one leading to abundant gardens bursting with blackberries and apples and rhubarb and forget-me-not. Another leading to a dark charred world, where all has burned and is stagnant and festering. One more leading to a sterile strip-lit room full of surgical instruments poised to extract the truth.

I am learning to stay in the room and look through the doors and know that I don’t have to go through them. Or that I can go through one and come back. Or I can just stay in the room and finish reading some of the unfinished books that line the shelves of the far wall and take comfort that that is enough. That this room houses me and my thoughts and that it’s safe to stay without an escape route or an exit plan. It’s my room, the one that I’ve been trying to find for years – a containment of me, where I can finish my unfinished thoughts, breathe unstifled breaths and repair broken stitches.

MA

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HOME Small home Home full of memories Memories of bad and good health Health, personal and that of my marriage Marriage and then of my son Son, my heir, my future, my hope Hope like entering to win a prize Prize of object, holiday or money Money much needed for my family Family, a creation developed with love Love unites three Three people, three roles Roles of Mother, Wife and Self Self is Important but I am small.

Sarah Ware

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Every food my son will eat

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DEAR DAUGHTER I wished for you.

In a past and innocent night I performed ritual to form you, a gift most precious given from the earth.

Sometimes I felt this was a punishment for meddling with magick, a black joke played out, a warning that yes, you can have, but you won’t get what you think.

In distant days folk tales told of enchanted babes who tasted of salt belonged to the faeries who would steal through the night to take back what was theirs – stories whispered in wooden shacks, deep in forests, in darkened times.

But we live in modern times, the brilliant light of science shines brightly on the truth. The crystalline salt upon your skin comes from deep within your genetic history, not from mere myth from without. But it does not keep the dark shadows from the corners where the faeries still lurk, watching, waiting, knowing that no matter how advanced our knowledge and technology, they still can steal you away at night.

You are my faery child. The twisted serpents of DNA illuminate your beauty. My fear of their destiny weighs heavy in my body and turns me slowly to stone. I need

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to be strong to keep fighting on, but the walls that build strength also lock out the joy as emotions seep out of the joints between blocks. I feel I am losing the mother I was, the one filled with hope, joy and optimism before I knew.

I am afraid to shine a light in the corners to face those who hide there. Although I can fight the work of those faeries, on car journeys home alone while you lie in a strange bed, connected by wires and lit by peaks and flashes, scream in the night that they cannot have you, in truth I know they can.

So, I am trying to take the bricks out of the wall one by one, a futile attempt to gain control of the grief. I don’t want to be walled off, disconnected, but I realise that I am as scared of the grief and of falling apart as I am of what I am grieving.

I know the faeries are coming, and when they come with their dance of death I need to know that they have not killed our joy of life, that our magick is the strong magick of beauty, love and laughter. So, I am taking the joy back, because as my child, joy is what you are.

Emma Salmon

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It begins as a block of discarded metal; dense, dented and raw.

It is cut, ground and scalded until it’s liquid once more.

The bands that emerge from this precious remnant, echo our journey, filled with resilience and torment.

He consoles me softly that only in darkness are stars born, and in that moment all faith restored.

At some point we awake to find our bodies have aged and the journeys we planned, forgotten and betrayed.

But our rings and affinity still exist, albeit with scratches and dents, we persist.

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WRITING ABOUT PHOTOGRAPHS

Vicki Painting, Still life, 2019, digital photograph

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MAMA FELT SAD Mama felt sad today but not in a sad sad kind of way or in a she misses your dad kind of way in a way that can only be described as heavy heavy on my chest to the soles of my feet so heavy that it makes my soul feel weak lead in my veins shackled by my brain this chemical imbalance is driving me insane but i’ll be okay, my dear as long as you are near i will rise with the sun and shine with the moon i’ll flow with the tide with the flowers, i shall bloom with you as my backbone, i am never alone, with myself as your mother, i’ll always be your home.

AR Wordsmith

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SNARL the toxic shock of coffee flooding your system wanting to growl and bite having to swallow and smile he wakes too early as does she you want to crouch low crawl off and claw at the bedclothes instead you quietly howl and put the kettle on again

SL

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NARRATIVE

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AN EMPTY NEST As I walk up the path to the front door the silence pours itself into my ears like a concrete mixer spilling its load. It is dark, no one is home and the stillness mocks me.

Gone are the days of heavy metal pounding and growling out of an amplifier, two or three young lads moshing on their guitars, improvising their own creativity against other various passionate musicians. As I put the key in the lock it seems to reverberate, click... click… click through the hall. I turn on the light, everything is as it was when I left this morning – nothing has moved. I am alone – I hear my breathing – a deep sigh. I close my eyes and try to recall all the things that drove me crazy when my chick was in the nest. Now there are no lunch dishes and glasses jammed into the sink, no open bottles of milk left out of the fridge.

The longing and the loss take over my entire being, profound, all-encompassing, sucking out my soul. It is the early days of living in and with my Empty Nest.

Depression swirls around me like a deep dark well.

Nothing is familiar, nothing is the same. I see no way out or through this. I don’t have the option of going back in time and I have to reach a place of acceptance and move forward. Grief only feeds my anxiety and depression to a point where I start to question who I am, what is my purpose?

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As the days crawl by I keep on remembering the last look I had at his face, before he turned around and headed away from me and through Passport Control to begin his gap year thousands of miles away in Australia. Aloneness attacks me like a python squeezing its prey, it strangles me more and more each day, I call in sick again for work, I cannot get out of bed, I cannot stay awake. I haven’t washed since last weekend nor have I eaten since 2 o’clock yesterday. Mugs of tea lie untouched on the floor next to my bed.

I am snatched from my restless sleep, cannot breathe, my heart feels as if it is like a fish out of water flipping and flopping on the harbour wall. My journey through mental disorder is exacerbated, perfected and fine-tuned with this new sense of loss.

I have to find myself. PLEASE HELP ME … anyone?

I keep crying this out into the darkness of depression as it holds me prisoner. No one hears me, no one reaches out, which only compounds the loneliness. “Get out and do something that you enjoy”, people say but the only thing that I want I cannot access. For 19 years my entire identity has been to be his mum – now I am nothing. All I can do is wait for morning and drag myself up again and claw my way through the day. Please take this from me … anybody … please!

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Unpacking my life

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Empty

Hide and watch

Connection

Motherhood is blind

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Coffee and chill

The Ringmaster

The Acrobat

The Lion-Tamer

The Clown

The Strongman

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“When another human being approaches and you are face to face … you are under an obligation to respond… so that she or he might be heard.”

Philosophers Jean-Luc Nancy and Ann Smock “Listening is the oldest and perhaps the most powerful tool of healing. It is often through the quality of our listening and not the wisdom of our words that we are able to effect the most profound changes in the people around us. When we listen, we offer with our attention an opportunity for wholeness.

Our listening creates sanctuary for the homeless parts within the other person. That which has been denied, unloved, devalued by themselves and others. That which is hidden.”

MD Rachel Naomi Remen

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Narrative photos feature images from: Still I Rise: Feminisms, Gender, Resistance, Act 2: De La Warr Pavilion, 2019

PARTICIPANTS Aimee Barnes Amanda Jobson Amanda Saunders Angela McIsaac Carla Sheppard Emma Salmon Gemma Kilgour-Jones Jill Cramp Nell Garfath-Cox Sarah Locke Sarah Ware Sophia Grace Eden Tanja Conway-Grim

FACILITATORS Photography: Vicki Painting Creative writing: Antonia Chitty Spoken word: AR Wordsmith Podcast production: Jilliene Sellner Peer support: Chenielle Jefferies Mentoring: Judith Alder Supervision: Anna Stratford Project conceived & co-ordinated by: Xaverine MA Bates

Design: Erica Smith Print: Pureprint, Uckfield 64

This publication is the result of six months of workshops with mothers with mental health challenges at all stages of motherhood. They worked with photographer Vicki Painting, writer Antonia Chitty, spoken word artist AR Wordsmith and were supported by peer support specialist Chenielle Jefferies.

The project was conceived and co-ordinated by Xaverine MA Bates in partnership with the De La Warr Pavilion, Egerton Park Children’s Centre and Recovery Partners.

Above: Unrecorded (detail) by one of the workshop participants

FU N D ED BY:

The Magdalen & Lasher Charity

ÂŁ10.00